You Owe Me One
by Cryptic Nymph
Summary: It was the first thing that struck John when he saw the post - where were all the overdue bills? Sherlock/John, uber fluff, to commemorate my 1st FanFiction Birthday. Oneshot.


**Christ. I haven't updating in an age, have I? I'm sorry. I'm awful, aren't I? It's just that things have rather got on top of me. I have five exams coming up, which is totally throwing me, let alone my mocks in December and my Music performance piece and my Physics retake and my English Literature exam. And then I have about six fics on the go, which isn't helping my workload, and because I'm an idiot I keep writing more. Like this.**

**It's Hallowe'en. Which I don't usually mind, but this year is different for some reason. There are so many people, I don't like the way they keep coming to the door. Even my friends turning up pissed me off a bit. And my sister and her mates are all in the living room watching horror films, which means I'm hiding in the other room and not eating tonight because I'm too scared to go out and steal some of theirs. I'm also neglecting some rather important exam prep because when I finally psyched myself up to go into the other room and get it, I couldn't find it immediately and so I ran out again.**

**Christ Bethan. Stop venting to strangers on the internet.**

**I wanted to write something for Hallowe'en, because my first ever fic was published for Hallowe'en and I thought I ought to commemorate it. I originally planned to write a majorly cracky Hallowe'en fic, but it wasn't working out (All I'll say is Sherlock and John dressed in women's costumes. And the emergency comb made an appearance, if you get the reference :D)**

**It's been one hell of a year guys. Thank you for sticking by me. This is just some super fluff, because I need it right now.**

* * *

><p>It was the first thing that struck John when he saw the post - where were all the overdue bills? There was a distinct lack of bold, angry red writing, screaming "Reminder" on any of the letters; in fact they all seemed faintly insipid by comparison. It was harder to get worried over these he supposed, but a small part of him resented the idea that he had dull post. Up till now he normally had at least one piece of <em>exciting<em> post; well, as far as post is able to be exciting. He was the kind of man who had, on a scale of excitement, _thrilling_ post; he never knew when the bailiffs might cut of his water. He was living on the edge.

Perhaps he was putting too much thought into this.

Nevertheless, there were no overdue bills, which hadn't happened in about twenty years. Now that he thought about it, it was the first time ever. The quintessentially British- and by definition, pessimistic- part of his brain felt this was a very bad thing.

He knew what he'd been taking on when he'd come to live with Sherlock- nothing about him was _regular_. They had no consistent source of income; they lived off any reward they received from grateful clients, the occasional food parcel from Mrs Hudson and he wouldn't have it any other way however, so this frankly insultingly uninteresting post was startling. He doubted he'd ever felt so angry about a dental appointment and appeal letters from the British Cross.

"Sherlock," he said, still looking at the post, "can I ask you something?"

"Fine," Sherlock called from the kitchen, "but make it quick. I'm in the middle of an important experiment."

John walked into the kitchen, watching Sherlock as he fiddled with some wiring at the kitchen table. "I think our post is being sent to the wrong address."

Sherlock frowned, but still did not take his eyes off his work. "Why? Have we got more of those preachy fundamentalist letters again? Honestly, I only talked to those people for a case and it was the one most excruciatingly painful ten minutes of my life. If I don't include those spent with Anderson, of course."

"Naturally," John deadpanned, "But no, no, we've just not got any bills. It's a bit odd, isn't it?"

Sherlock looked up, a strange expression on his face. "Yes. Must have been a mix up at the post office."

"Yeah…" John placed the letters down on the table, "I think I ought to go sort it out- shouldn't take long. I'll meet you at Angelo's, at seven?"

"Hmmm" acknowledged Sherlock, already having returned to the tangle of wires, "Seven."

John put on his coat and braved out into the autumnal wind. The sky was just darkening, a dazzling orange burst of sunlight near its centre slowly fading into lilac, and then through to a rich royal purple. The post office was around half an hour away and he chose to walk the distance – he loved the colder months. He arrived at the post office promptly and engaged in that most British of pastimes, queuing.

"Hi," he said cheerily as he reached the front, "I'm having a small problem with my post."

A blank eyed teenager stared back at him, lazily chewing her gum. "What's the problem?"

"I'm not receiving my bills; I think they might be being delivered to another address."

"I'm afraid that's an issue you have to take up with your suppliers," she said, her drawl as sluggish as her jaw.

"Is there nothing you can do?" he replied, irked by her tone.

She sighed as though this would be of great effort to her and said brusquely "Name?"

"Dr John Watson."

She typed quickly away on her computer, only to turn quickly back to him. "Registered address, 221B Baker Street, London, NW1 6XE?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Then I can't help you."

He sighed. "Fine, forget it." Annoyed, he headed back down the street, intending to find a place to kill some time before he met with Sherlock at the restaurant. No sooner than he was halfway down the street, however, he felt his phone go in his pocket.

"John Watson."

"Hello, John."

John groaned inwardly. "Mycroft."

"There's no need to sound so disappointed, John."

"Not disappointed, just surprised. Usually if you want to speak to me, you just arrange a convenient kidnapping."

"Kidnapping is such an ugly word…"

"Have I done something to offend you?"

"Oh, no," Mycroft dismissed, "I was just checking up on you."

John thought for a moment. "Mycroft" he paused slightly, "I don't know why you would have, but, have you been paying our bills?"

He could almost hear Mycroft's scowl. "Of course not. Why would I do that? Sherlock is more than capable of paying the bills by himself."

This time it was John who frowned. "Excuse me?"

"John, you cannot honestly think that Sherlock was lacking in funds. Just look at his clothes, his background. Sherlock is one of the richest people in the country, through inherited wealth."

He wasn't sure why this was so shocking. "But… But why does he live in Baker Street then? He could live in Kensington if he wanted. Why does he go for the middle ground?"

Mycroft sighed. "He's always been eccentric. He likes the area because it's so central, it's a practical decision. And of course, he could get a reduced fee at Mrs Hudson's."

"So, he just likes to save his money, is that why?"

"Obviously not, you've seen the amount he spends on those designer clothes of his. He'll spend a lot for quality."

"That doesn't explain why the bills aren't arriving."

"Oh but John, it does. You just need to ask him yourself."

Mycroft hung up abruptly, leaving John horribly confused. He glanced down at his watch- if he started now; he would get to Angelo's on time.

The walk passed in no time at all, he had too much to think about. It was all so strange. He was used to bizarre behaviour from Sherlock, but usually they related to his ability to go for weeks without sleep, or the fact he frequently used their appliances to house body parts for his experiments. There was never anything like this…

John spotted Sherlock sat at their usual table by the window, surprisingly on time. He sat down beside an almost anxious looking Sherlock, "You OK?"

"Yes, fine, fine" he responded, without turning to acknowledge John "I ordered you your usual."

"Thank you." John bit his lip, unsure of when to raise the subject. "Dinner's on me."

Sherlock waved it aside. "Nonsense John. Angelo gives us our meals for free."

"Aha, but we can't possibly expect him to give us a free meal once or twice a week, Sherlock."

"He understands. We have an arrangement."

More strangeness. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"About these bills…"

"What about them?" he replied sharply, finally turning to look at John.

"You- you haven't been paying them, have you? All of them, I mean?"

Sherlock flushed so faintly that John would not have seen it if it were not for how close they were sitting. Come to mention it, they _were_ sitting awfully close; he seemed to have edged closer to Sherlock without thinking. "Why ever would I do that?"

"That's what I was hoping you'd answer."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, do not ask such stupid questions, or I will be forced to say something cutting back and you will not appreciate it."

John ignored him. "Mycroft told me that you've got money."

Sherlock stiffened for a fraction of a moment, and then regained his composure.

"I mean," John continued, "I always knew that you had a _bit_ of cash, just look at Mycroft, but I assumed you had a falling out with your family or something, something that meant you didn't receive the money you were entitled to. I thought you spent what money you did have on clothes and taxis and most probably illegal body parts."

Sherlock looked down, as if ashamed. "I have sufficient funds, yes. If you feel I have in any way misled you, I assure you it was unintentional."

"So have you?"

He paused. "Yes."

John wasn't sure how he was feeling. He wasn't angry or annoyed, but there was a sense of unease in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't account for. It felt like there was more to be discovered here.

"And Angelo's meals? You've been paying for those too?"

"Yes."

"But why?"

Sherlock seemed reluctant to talk, dragging his hand absentmindedly over his mouth.

"Please, Sherlock, why?"

"I- I felt bad," he managed finally.

John had to stifle a laugh. "Why?"

"Is that all you can say?" Sherlock snarled, but there was no venom in it.

"Just tell me, please."

"I drag you around London at all hours of the night, I ruin the flat and your possessions, and I stop you getting a proper job because you're so busy looking after me. How could I expect you to _pay_ to live with me?"

John chuckled. "Sherlock, I enjoy living with you, a lot. You don't need to pay me off."

Sherlock looked oddly touched by this. The fingers of his hand brushed his lips, drawing John's eye unexpectedly. They were so pale next to his mouth, which suddenly seemed very red.

"Well. You're a better man than I."

"Where's the money that I've paid been going, then?"

"Oh. I arranged that it would be re-entered into your bank account. It wasn't difficult- you're hopeless at maths, you have no idea of the amount you're supposed to receive each month through interest."

John smiled. "Thanks very much," he said in mock annoyance, "but there's still one thing I don't understand."

"Oh? What's that?" Sherlock picked up his wine glass and drank a little.

"If you had all this money, why did you get a flatmate anyway?"

Sherlock's hand froze at his mouth and gripped tightly on the glass, the pads of his fingers pushed hard up against the side. He was beginning to breathe a little heavier, the already straining buttons of his shirt being pushed to their limit. John was puzzled by this, as he was by the question Sherlock needed to answer. It had been eating away at him. Sherlock's flush crept up his skin, across his cheeks and along his neck. His long, elegant, almost satin-like neck. So red and hot, because of something he had said. Because of _him_.

John's mouth was suddenly very dry. He licked his lips and saw Sherlock's eyes dart down to watch the movement, his chest rising and falling much deeper than John had ever seen before.

"Sherlock?"

There was a long pause. "Originally? As an experiment."

Whatever John had been expecting, this wasn't it. He suddenly found it very hard to breathe. "Oh."

"It's not what you think-"

"It's exactly what I think, Sherlock," John was surprised to hear his words crack, "maybe I should just-"

He made to stand up to leave, but Sherlock grabbed his hand to prevent this. John didn't touch Sherlock often, and certainly not for long, and he was startled by how warm Sherlock's hand was. Blood pumped beneath his pale skin, even though it looked like Sherlock should be made of finely carved ice.

He let go of a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. "Sherlock?"

"You're not an experiment, you're my friend," Sherlock said, unconsciously tightening the grip on John's hand "and Christ knows, if you were just an experiment, don't you think I'd let you walk off?"

John paused. That did seem logical. He wondered whether he should tug his hand away from Sherlock's, but found himself curiously reluctant.

"Do you think I'd react like- like- like _this_?"

He glanced at the thin sheen of sweat on Sherlock's prominent clavicle. "What do you mean?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean, John," he said with a sigh, very clearly angry with himself. "You- You make me… _nervous_."

Oh. _Oh._And it made sense. It all made terrible, wonderful sense. And Sherlock had a look in his eye that he always had when he was on edge, when the excitement and anticipation in him threatened to bubble up and overflow.

"You were an experiment, you were a character study. I admit that. But not anymore. You're so much more than that, John."

This was the tipping point. The point of no return. If he didn't cross this line with Sherlock now, he never would.

John grabbed the collar of Sherlock's shirt pulling him across the table towards him and capturing his soft, plump lips in a firm but loving kiss. Sherlock reciprocated immediately, desperately clinging to the fabric of John's jumper with one hand and moving the other into John's hair.

After a few minutes, there was a loud and pointed cough. John pulled away from Sherlock, who looked as though he would have been content to simply ignore them. It was Angelo.

"Your meals- if you'll be needing them, that is."

Sherlock gave a small laugh. "Angelo, put it on my tab. I'd pay you now, but at the moment, there are more important things at stake. I need to take this army doctor home."

John blushed deeper than Sherlock at his words, but Angelo just smiled wryly and walked away.

* * *

><p><em>Messages received: 2:30, 27th October.<em>

_You bastard. You knew about the bills all along, didn't you? SH_

**_I don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock._**

_Don't lie to me, brother. SH_

**_Oh, alright. I was sick of the little soap opera you two were having- you're not in some drama series, you do realise that, don't you?_**

_You didn't know that would work. SH_

**_I was fairly certain._**

_I have removed the bugs from the apartment, just so you know. SH_

**_Like I didn't realise that already._**

_I assumed you wouldn't want to see what was happening next. SH_

**_Believe me, I certainly didn't. You owe me one, brother._**

_Bastard. SH_

**_You're welcome._**


End file.
